


The Staten Island Situation

by Estelle (Fielding)



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-29 11:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19828792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fielding/pseuds/Estelle
Summary: A Saturday in Staten Island goes off the rails for Captain Holt and Jake. This is a Jake & Holt partner story (with a Jake/Amy epilogue because, of course).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story should fit between Show Me Going and White Whale. If I'm wrong...sorry?

Raymond was running late to the bimonthly captains meeting at One Police Plaza, but when a voice called out for him to hold the elevator, he obliged. The woman offered him a breathless thank you as she darted in and turned to watch the doors close. Between the second and first floors, she cleared her throat and said, “Are you in charge here?”

“I am,” Raymond said, tipping his head to her. “Captain Raymond Holt.”

The woman nodded at him and squared her shoulders a bit. “My brother was killed. Last night.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Raymond said.

“Thanks,” the woman said. “Your, um, team. Detectives. They caught the guy who did it. I’m- Well. I’m very grateful.”

Though these situations did not come up infrequently, Raymond always found himself caught somewhat off guard and unsure of the best response. A simple “you’re welcome” would probably suffice, but it sounded so insignificant. Telling a grieving family member that they were just doing their jobs seemed callus.

He thought for a moment and said, “When we cannot protect, we are here to serve.”

The woman looked confused for a moment, and then her lips curled into a small smile. “Serve and protect. I get it.”

The doors opened on the first floor, and Raymond gestured for her to exit first. She did, but she paused just after the threshold and turned back to him again. “Actually, it was mostly the one detective, Peralta,” she said. “He solved my brother’s case very fast.”

“I will pass on your regards,” Raymond said. He forced himself not to look at his watch. He was definitely going to be late, but the woman looked like she had more to say.

“I don’t know if I should say anything, because Detective Peralta really was great,” she said.

Raymond sighed to himself.

“It’s just, when I was looking at the police lineup, there was this thing with a Backstreet Boys song…”

Eight minutes later, Raymond was back at his desk, office door closed, Jake fidgeting in a chair. Raymond replied to the all-captains email chain that he would be late to the meeting and set down his cell phone. He folded his hands in front of him and stared stonily at Jake.

“The witness, who happened to be the sister of the victim, said you made the lineup sing a 1990s boy band song,” Raymond said.

“Backstreet Boys is more than just a boy band,” Jake said, then added quickly, “and it was for the case. She said she’d heard the suspect singing ‘I Want It That Way.’”

“She said you sang the chorus with them,” Raymond said.

“The hook is insanely catchy,” Jake said, and he opened his mouth in such a way that Raymond was sure he was going to start singing, so he held up a hand to pre-empt him.

“The witness is appreciative of your work solving the case, and she is not interested in seeing you disciplined,” Raymond said. Jake snapped his mouth shut. “However, this kind of childish behavior-”

“It was just a second of singing,” Jake said.

“I watched the tape. You were harmonizing,” Raymond said. “And that is why I am requesting your attendance at next month’s community policing event with the 122nd.”

Jake groaned and looked up toward the ceiling. “And by requesting-”

“It’s a Saturday. You will wear a tie.”

+++

They drove to Staten Island together in one of the unmarked sedans with odd stains on the upholstered front seats and what must be a permanent stench of burned coffee. Someone had hung a car deodorizer in the shape of a frog – which was disturbing, since frogs were not known to smell pleasant – from the rearview mirror. Raymond had torn it off and thrown it in a nearby trashcan before they left.

Jake was quiet for the first five minutes, nursing a coffee and clearly still half asleep, and Raymond took the opportunity to enjoy the Saturday morning NPR programming while he could, though it was mostly a recap of shows he’d already heard earlier in the week. Raymond was beginning to consider turning to his favorite classical music station when Jake said, “Did I mention that Charles and I ran into Adrian Pimento a couple weeks ago?”

He filled the rest of the ride with what was, in fairness, a remarkably dramatic tale, all of it entirely believable because Pimento had been involved. “So then I invited him to the wedding, and after all that he said he couldn’t make it,” Jake said. “Which, by the way, is definitely for the best. Please don’t tell Amy I invited him.”

Raymond nodded but didn’t say anything. He felt a jolt of guilt at the reminder of the wedding, which was now only three weeks away.

When Raymond had ordered Jake to attend the community meeting, the timing hadn’t occurred to him. Raymond’s own wedding had been spur of the moment – there had been no weekends spent tasting cakes or crafting signature cocktails or choosing stationery or renting tables and chairs. For an event such as Jake and Amy were planning much advance organization was involved, and when it had dawned on Raymond that he was robbing them of an entire day, he’d felt bad. The police lineup thing had been a minor transgression, after all.

But then Rosa had been involved in an active shooter situation and Jake had very nearly gone running after her, and though Jake had come to his senses before irredeemable mistakes were made, that he’d taken things as far as he had was concerning. Raymond hadn’t seen evidence of Jake’s so-called “lone wolf” behavior in a long time, and if asked he would have said that Jake had put that behind him. But then Jake had lied and defied a direct order, so he could play the hero.

Raymond knew that wasn’t quite fair. Jake had been motivated by concern for a friend, not a desire to save the day, or at least not entirely. But still, Raymond thought Jake should be better able to manage those kneejerk reactions, to be a smart detective, not a brash one. A Saturday morning community meeting wasn’t going to address that. But Raymond was still irritated enough by how the situation had played out that he’d decided not to let Jake off the hook, wedding be damned.

Anyway, Jake didn’t seem too bothered by the timing of the meeting. Perhaps he was relieved to be freed of some wedding-related chore.

The meeting itself was being hosted by the 122nd precinct, which had been the focus recently of a handful of embarrassing, and in a few cases alarming, civilian complaints. There had been accusations of police misconduct, misuse of public funding and mishandling of evidence. The most troubling incident had been an officer-involved shooting six months ago, which had been too-quickly investigated, the police absolved of all charges. Several protests had been staged outside the precinct, and this meeting had been ordered by the commissioner’s office to help improve relations and calm down the neighborhood.

Raymond had his doubts it would help, but he was a firm believer in transparency, so he didn’t mind being asked to speak about community relations in the Nine-Nine. His own precinct had been commended – quietly, without any fanfare, at Raymond’s request – for its strong ties to the neighborhood. He knew his officers respected the people they served. He knew that was true of Jake, too, and that the incident with the witness and the singing lineup had not been the result of any lack of regard for civilians.

They arrived at the meeting a few minutes early, but already the other police attendees were there, along with about a dozen civilians. The meeting was being held in a high school theater – a rather impressive one, with auditorium seating for a few hundred people and a raised stage. It wasn’t an especially inviting location, with the civilians relegated to the audience and the police speakers in folding chairs on the stage, a podium in the middle. Raymond would have chosen something that put everyone on an equal level and encouraged conversation, not lectures. He sighed as he and Jake walked down one long side aisle toward the stage.

“Holt! Over here!” Sergeant Brickhouse with the One-Two-Two was waving them over, a takeout coffee cup in the hand in the air. Even from a distance Raymond could tell when some liquid sloshed onto Brickhouse’s uniform, because the man laughed and brushed off his tie. He also had what looked to be powdered donut detritus, or else really bad dandruff, dusted across his beard and mustache.

“I cannot believe you’re making me waste a Saturday morning with Staten Island Scully,” Jake said under his breath.

Once they reached the stage they were introduced to the other panel members – two beat officers from the 122nd and Detective Lisa Wong from the 83rd.

“What are you in for?” Detective Wong said to Jake, as they took their seats.

“I made some perps sing ‘I Want It That Way’. In front of a witness,” Jake said.

“Nice,” Detective Wong said. “I accidentally showed photos of a murdered Santa Claus to a 6-year-old. Santa had been stabbed 52 times.”

“Damn,” Jake said.

Brickhouse called for the meeting to start then and everyone else sat – Raymond and Jake and Detective Wong on stage left, the One-Two-Two officers on stage right, the podium in the middle. The civilians took their seats too, scattered about the auditorium in a way that made it look even more empty than it was. Raymond counted 23 people in all, with maybe 10 clustered into the middle of the first three rows and the rest spread all over. The lights on the stage were bright, but the house lights had been dimmed and Raymond felt like they were there to put on a show. He forced what he hoped was a politely interested look on his face but feared was more like a grimace.

Brickhouse introduced everyone and invited Jake to speak first, which surprised both of them. But Jake gamely strolled up to the podium, straightening his tie as he went. Raymond had told him he did not need to wear his uniform, but he should look professional – in other words, clean jeans, no hoodie. He’d ended up in a blue plaid shirt and unpatterned tie and his leather jacket. Raymond was wearing his usual uniform, mostly because that was what he always wore at work events. It came back to transparency – show the people who you really were, not who you thought they wanted to see.

Raymond had given Jake some tips on his presentation but hadn’t gone so far as to demand to hear it in advance. In the end, it was fine. Jake talked about the kinds of cases he normally worked, kept the jokes and the gruesome details to a minimum, and worked in only one Die Hard reference. Detective Wong went next, and she blundered badly by starting off her presentation with a story about finding a manila envelope filled with fingernails in a parakeet cage while on an elder welfare check.

A woman in the audience tentatively raised her hand and said, “Was the elderly person okay?”

“Um, he was dead,” Detective Wong said. “Like, six weeks dead. The smell was real bad.”

In the silence that followed, Jake leaned toward Holt and whispered, “You appreciate me so much right now.”

He wasn’t wrong. Raymond ignored him anyway.

+++

Raymond’s presentation was thorough, thoughtful and extremely dignified. He could tell the crowd was bored. He cut himself off with 18 typed pages remaining, told the group that he would be available after the meeting for questions, and walked back to his seat. He did not sulk. Jake patted his arm in a patronizing way.

Brickhouse sauntered up next and his voice boomed out over the audience as he thanked the 99th and the 83rd for joining them. He said, “I know the past few months have been a little bit challeng-”

“Fuck you!” yelled a voice from the back of the auditorium, followed by a chorus of echoing calls from around the theater as two or three people in the audience leapt to their feet. Raymond tensed, eyes scanning the room, and Brickhouse boomed for everyone to calm down, and then Jake called out, “Gun!”

Raymond ducked on instinct, realizing as he dropped that they had no cover on this stage, that they were totally exposed. Instantly, the noise in the theater was deafening – the clatter of metal folding chairs falling over, civilians screaming, police shouting to everyone to get down. Raymond reached for his gun and remembered he hadn’t brought it – this was meant to be a friendly neighborhood meeting, not a shootout. Crouched low, Raymond looked up, tried to track the audience for shooters, and then glanced back at Jake, who was squatting just behind him.

Jake gestured with one hand toward the wings, clearly advising that they needed to get the hell off the stage, when something caught his eye and his head jerked up. Before Raymond could turn to see what had his attention, Jake jumped to his feet. He took two running steps and dove, tackling Brickhouse, who was standing dumbstruck behind the podium. Just as Jake hit Brickhouse, Raymond heard gunshots, three in quick succession, and ducked lower. Wood splinters spit off the top of podium, but Jake and Brickhouse were already on the ground.

Brickhouse landed on his back and quickly scrambled and kicked Jake away from him and rolled onto his stomach, covering his head with both hands. Jake fell awkwardly off to the side, his back to Raymond. He wasn’t moving.

Raymond spared one glance toward the audience, enough to spot at least two people with guns, and to note that they seemed focused on corralling the civilians for the moment. He sprinted across the stage to Jake, skidding to his knees beside him. Jake was unconscious, blood spilling down the right side of his face. Raymond clasped his shoulder and shook him, said his name. Jake groaned and Raymond realized he needed to make a decision, and fast: stay or go.

He took a second to survey the room. Brickhouse was still cowering nearby, not obviously injured. The two uniforms were standing, shell-shocked, their arms in the air in surrender. He couldn’t see Detective Wong. Below the stage, the shooters seemed to have formed a loose perimeter around a group of civilians.

Raymond grabbed Jake by the arm and hauled him up.

“Move, Peralta,” he hissed. “Now!”

Whether on instinct or by choice, Jake obeyed, climbing clumsily to his feet. Raymond swung Jake’s arm over his shoulders and half-dragged, half-guided him toward the wings stage right. Someone yelled “stop!” and Raymond grabbed Jake around the waist and pulled him along faster. He heard a gunshot at almost the exact moment he saw a bullet chip into the stage floor in front of them. A second shot brushed over their heads, so close Raymond could hear the whistle of it. And then they dove behind the curtains

Immediately they were enfolded in cool darkness, the curtains buffering the light as well as the noise from the auditorium. Raymond pushed them deeper backstage, blinking rapidly to adjust his vision. To their left, he saw a free-standing wall with a cut-out door in the middle, and Raymond turned them toward it and pushed Jake through the opening before diving in himself.

It was a set, poorly constructed and wobbly, but at least it was a place to hide. Raymond shoved Jake up against the fake wall and folded himself practically on top. He focused on breathing quiet and steady.

Footsteps pounded by seconds later, followed shortly by a second set. Raymond heard voices calling out that no one was backstage and they must have gotten away. “Fuck,” said one voice, dangerously close to where Raymond and Jake were huddled. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” said another voice, a woman’s. She was breathing heavily. “I think you got one of them.”

“Maybe,” the man said. They were silent, footsteps scuffing the floor. Raymond held his breath.

“Come on. We’ve still got the three that matter,” the woman said.

The man grunted, the sound coming from just the other side of the fake door in the fake wall. Raymond pressed himself further into Jake, felt Jake’s chest rise and fall with his rapid breathing.

“Yeah, you’re right,” the man said, and his footsteps moved away, toward the main stage, until they were lost to the muffled screams and cries coming from the auditorium.

Raymond let out his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

They were safe for now. Raymond moved off of Jake and sat back against the fake wall, taking advantage of the momentary calm to assess the situation. Jake was conscious but injured, possibly very badly injured. An unknown number of people with guns were holding hostages, including scared civilians, in the theater. Some of them may be injured too. Raymond fished his cell phone out of his pants pocket – there was on signal. He tried dialing 911 anyway but the call wouldn’t go through.

His options were: Get himself and Jake out of the theater and go for help, or stay and try to take down the shooters. The second option was not a smart one. As much as he would like to save the civilians, he was one man, unarmed, with a wounded partner. His chances of success were infinitesimal. His choice was made.

“Peralta,” he said, quietly. He bumped his shoulder against Jake’s when he didn’t respond right away. “Jake.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, his voice low and sluggish.

“I’m going to look for an exit,” Raymond said. “I need you to stay here and be quiet.”

“Nnn, I’ll go with-”

“Don’t move,” Raymond said, pressing a hand into Jake’s shoulder to keep him still. “I’ll be back soon.”

He held his hand in place, studying Jake’s face in the dim light until he saw a faint nod. Raymond squeezed his shoulder, then turned and crouched, and shuffled as quietly as he could through the fake door. It got darker the further he moved backstage, but there was just enough light for him to maneuver through the maze of sets and furniture and random props piled here and there. Directly behind center stage was a door marked by a red neon exit sign. Raymond gently pushed against the handle but it was chained and padlocked. He imagined the gunman must have done that when he went looking backstage. He walked to the other side of the backstage area in search of another exit but there was none.

As he made his way back to Jake, Raymond spotted the outline of an unmarked door he hadn’t noticed before. The door was ajar, and when Raymond ducked his head inside, he saw that it was a small dressing room, about the size of his master bathroom. Inside was a sink and a mirror and a rack overstuffed with hanging costumes. Raymond tested the doorknob from the inside – it would lock.

Raymond found Jake where he’d left him, slumped against the fake wall. He jerked his head up when Raymond crept through the doorway, his hand immediately going to his hip, where his gun would be. That was a good sign, Raymond thought.

“Can you walk?” Raymond said in a whisper.

Jake nodded and let Raymond help him to his feet. He was unsteady, reaching out with one hand to balance against the wall, but he stayed standing. After closing his eyes for a moment, he looked back at Raymond and nodded again. Raymond gestured with his head – ‘follow me.’

They moved silently back toward the dressing room. Jake stumbled once, knocking into a mannequin wearing a large floppy sunhat, but he recovered quickly and grabbed its arm to keep it from falling over. After that, Jake kept his hand on Raymond’s back as they walked. Raymond ushered Jake into the dressing room then closed the door and locked it. Immediately they were thrust in total darkness, but Raymond didn’t want to risk turning on a light. He pulled out his cell phone, using the dim screen to provide marginal illumination.

Jake was looking about the room, swaying slightly on his feet. Raymond gently pushed down on his shoulder, urging him to sit on the floor. He crouched in front of Jake and used the phone to finally get a better look at him.

The right side of his face was covered in blood, which appeared to be coming from a gash at his hairline. There was enough blood that it was impossible to tell how big or deep the wound was, but Raymond was certain that Jake hadn’t taken a bullet directly to the head. He’d hoped as much – given that Jake was awake and alive – but it was still a relief to see. It was possible a bullet had grazed his forehead, or else he’d been cut by shrapnel from bullets hitting the podium or stage floor. Moving the light around, Raymond saw a lump forming lower on Jake’s forehead, just over his eyebrow; it was already bruising impressively. That must have happened when Jake hit the stage.

Raymond directed the light at Jake’s face and waved it back and forth, watching his eyes track the light somewhat sluggishly before Jake closed them with a grimace, batting the phone away. Raymond let out a huff of breath and set the phone in his lap. He didn’t need any further tests to tell him that Jake was concussed.

“Did you call for help?” Jake said quietly.

“No signal,” Raymond said.

Jake pulled his phone out to check. “Same,” he said before shoving it back in his pocket. “What’s the plan, sir?”

Raymond glanced up at him. “Get you out of here,” he said.

Jake made a face and said, “First, that’s not a plan so much as a concept. And second, I meant: What’s the plan to take down the shooters and free the hostages?”

“Peralta, you are in no condition to be taking down anyone. We need to find a way out of this building so we can call for help, and get you to a hospital.”

“I’m fine,” Jake hissed.

“You were shot in the head,” Raymond said.

“Was I?” Jake said. He touched his fingers to his forehead, winced when he brushed up against the bump.

“Do you not remember?” Raymond said, concerned.

“Oh no, I remember,” Jake said. “I just wasn’t sure if I was shot or, I don’t know, actually. It all happened pretty fast.”

Raymond realized that yes, it had happened so fast that he’d hardly had time to process what had gone down. “It was a very courageous thing you did,” he said.

“Or very dumb,” Jake said. “But seriously, what’re we gonna do? I’m assuming you didn’t find a way out of here or else we wouldn’t be sitting in a dark closet together.”

“We will do nothing,” Raymond said, emphasizing the ‘we.’ “I-” He paused.

“You’ll what?” Jake said.

“I don’t know yet,” Raymond said.

“So we wait?” Jake said.

“For now, yes.”

+++

Raymond knew the department protocol for this situation. As long as none of the shooters in the auditorium started firing their weapons or making obvious moves of aggression, the police – once they arrived on the scene – would bide their time. It was too risky to move in a tactical team and try to take out shooters with so many civilians held hostage and too many unknowns. He and Jake could be stuck here waiting for hours.

He glanced at his phone again – he and Jake had been holed up for 48 minutes. They sat side by side on the floor of the dressing room, backs to the wall. Jake was dozing, his head bent toward Raymond’s shoulder. He’d been clammy earlier, his pulse a little fast and thready, and Raymond had been concerned about shock on top of the head injury. He’d had Jake take off his jacket and tie, unbutton the top of his shirt. Raymond had risked turning on the tap to wet the sleeve of a costume shirt and clean most of the blood off Jake’s face; it had already stained the collar of his shirt and his hair was tacky with it. Jake still looked terrible, eyes bruised, face ghostly pale in the cell phone light.

Raymond turned off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, the slight movement jarring Jake. He sat up straighter, groaning under his breath.

“How long have we been here?” Jake said, the words slightly slurred.

“Almost an hour,” Raymond said.

“This is going to take all day if we wait for help.”

“Yes,” Raymond said, simply.

Jake sighed and they were quiet for a moment.

“We should at least get some intel,” Jake said. “Do we even know how many shooters we’re dealing with? I didn’t get a chance to count.”

“Neither did I, but at least three,” Raymond said.

“Okay, so that’s our plan,” Jake said.

“Peralta-”

“Look, I know I’m not in great shape. I 100 percent have a concussion,” Jake said. “And I know you think I just want to go off half-cocked again. But those guys have a lot of hostages. We can’t just stay here hiding all day.”

Raymond looked back at Jake, his profile barely visible in the dark. He seemed clear-headed enough, for the moment, but his voice was thin, either from shock or injury. Jake should stay put, quiet and safe.

But he had a point – they might not be able to just wait this out. At the very least, they needed more information about the situation at hand. And much as Raymond didn’t want to admit it, he couldn’t do it all on his own.

“All right,” he said. “But you will follow my orders. Exactly as I give them.”

“Copy that,” Jake said.

+++

Jake suggested, and Raymond had to agree, that it was best they split up to get as much information as possible. Raymond would head stage left, where he’d seen a narrow staircase that probably led up to the catwalk and would give him a vantage point over the auditorium and stage. Jake would head stage right and try to get a closer look at the suspects while staying in the shadowed wings.

“Which way is stage right?” Jake said, close to Raymond’s ear. They were hunched together in the open doorway, Raymond making sure the area just outside was clear.

Raymond turned to him with an impatient frown, and Jake dramatically, and unapologetically, shrugged. Raymond gestured toward the wing where they had hidden earlier

He watched Jake sneak off into the darkness. Raymond could tell Jake was still feeling unbalanced by the slight hesitation in his steps and the way he kept reaching out a hand to steady himself on chairs and tables and other furniture stacked against the walls. He didn’t like sending Jake off alone when he was clearly unwell. He hoped Jake had enough sense at least to stay well back in the wings and not let himself be seen.

“Do not engage with the shooters,” Raymond had said, as they went over the plan.

“What would I even engage them with?” Jake had said. “My witty repartee?”

“How do you know what repartee-”

“Ugh, c’mon, let’s do this,” Jake had said.

Raymond felt the twitch of a smile recalling the banter, then shook his head and told himself to focus. Jake had disappeared into the shadows, and Raymond headed off in the opposite direction. At the far side of the stage, he stopped and eyed the catwalk stairs warily. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but this metal contraption did not look especially solid – more than anything, he worried it would creak and groan under his footsteps and alert the shooters to his presence. He’d just have to maintain a light step. Raymond climbed carefully, alert to the smallest sound. About two-thirds of the way up he glanced down and saw he already had a good view of the theater, so he stopped and crouched low to peer through the railings.

He counted six civilian hostages, all seated in the front row below the stage. That was not great, but could have been worse. They also appeared unharmed, or at least none were suffering obvious injuries. Two shooters stood in the aisles on either side of the theater seats. Each appeared to be carrying a handgun.

On the stage, the two uniformed officers and Sergeant Brickhouse were seated in their folding chairs again, their hands secured behind them; presumably the shooters had used the officers’ own handcuffs, which was embarrassing. Brickhouse was slightly slumped over and he looked to be bleeding from the back of the head. Two more shooters were on the stage too, a man and woman. The man had a rifle slung over his chest.

Raymond took another long look around the theater. There were four more exit doors – two at the front of the theater and two at the back. He assumed all were locked. At the far end of the theater was a dark window, probably looking into a control room. The lights were still dim over the theater seats, and bright on the stage. He could faintly hear the shooters talking beneath him, but the acoustics from his position were not in his favor and he couldn’t make out words. Raymond slowly climbed down the stairs.

Back in the dressing room, he found Jake standing in front of the mirror, hands braced on either side of the sink, cell phone turned on so he had some light. He was leaning in close to his reflection, head turned to get a closer look at the wound, and he startled and smacked his head into the glass when Raymond shut the door with a quiet click.

“Ouch!” Jake hissed. “Was one head injury not enough?”

“I’m sorry,” Raymond said. “Are you okay?”

Jake waved him off and turned to lean back against the sink. “I’m fine. What’d you get?”

Raymond gave Jake a quick assessing gaze before launching into his report. Jake agreed that six civilian hostages was better than he’d hoped.

“You didn’t see Detective Wong?” Jake said.

Raymond shook his head. “She must have made it out. That’s good, she can tell the teams outside what happened better than any of the civilians who escaped.”

“True,” Jake said slowly.

“What about you?” Raymond said.

A blank look passed over Jake’s face, like he was confused by the question, before he shook his head slightly. “Right. Brickhouse and the uniforms are handcuffed and gagged. Shooters are all carrying 9mm Glocks. The one in charge, he’s on the stage, also has a semi-automatic rifle.”

“That’s not good,” Raymond said, unnecessarily.

“No, it’s not.”

Jake cleared his throat, and Raymond lifted an eyebrow. “What else?” he said.

“I overheard them,” Jake said. “They’re four siblings, three brothers and a sister. Their dad is- was Marcus Wallace.”

“Damn,” Raymond said.

Marcus Wallace had been shot and killed by an officer in the 122nd earlier in the year – it was his death that had set off the worst of the protests in the neighborhood, first in the immediate aftermath of the shooting, then again after the officer was completely cleared. It had been an ugly situation all around, and Raymond had privately shared some of the concerns that had circulated about the incident being resolved too easily.

Still, Raymond wasn’t sure what the Wallace children were expecting to accomplish by taking hostages.

“Was Brickhouse involved in the Wallace thing?” Jake said, softly.

Raymond wasn’t sure. “Maybe not directly,” he said. “But-” He trailed off. Brickhouse was a sergeant. He would have overseen the investigation in some capacity.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Well, the kids seem to think he was. Looks like they’ve roughed him up, but I don’t think it’s too bad.”

“Yet,” Raymond said.

Jake folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t appear to have anything to add to that.

+++

Raymond paced back and forth in the tiny room – five steps to the door, five steps back. Jake hadn’t said it, but they were clearly both thinking the same thing – this situation might not hold long enough to wait for help.

From the corner of his eye he caught Jake swaying slightly, even with the sink to lean up against. “Please sit down before you fall down,” Raymond said.

“Yes, Dad,” Jake said, and slumped back to the floor.

“How bad is the headache?” Raymond said.

Jake closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Raymond let out a huff of frustration. He hated that they were trapped, that he couldn’t bring Jake to help, couldn’t even get him an aspirin. He forced his thoughts back to the situation at hand and what he could do, not all the things he couldn’t.

Certainly some of the escaped civilians had contacted the authorities, and by now police must be on site. They would be doing their own reconnaissance from outside the building, and they’d be interviewing witnesses and collecting information on the Wallace family. They would be attempting to make contact with the shooters. But until the officers outside knew what was happening inside, they wouldn’t make a move. As long as the hostages weren’t perceived to be under immediate threat, the negotiators would be willing to wait hours to resolve the situation peacefully.

But Raymond wasn’t convinced they had hours. Wallace’s children clearly had come here to confront the officers from the 122nd – it was possible they had plans to exact revenge of some sort. Raymond thought it was unlikely that the civilians were at serious risk of harm, but the officers were another matter entirely. And if things got out of control, there could be collateral damage – no one would be safe.

“What’re we gonna do?” Jake said, his words muffled somewhat. Raymond looked over at him – Jake was bent toward the floor, head in his hands.

Raymond wondered how serious his head injury was. It could be hard to tell in the first hours, especially not knowing if Jake had been struck by a bullet or shrapnel or how hard he’d smacked his head on the stage. If he had a skull fracture, if he was bleeding into his brain, he could be in trouble. And if that was the case, they needed to get him to help quickly – another reason they couldn’t wait for the police outside to do their thing.

“We need to separate the shooters,” Raymond said, forming the plan in his head as he spoke out loud. “Take them out one at a time.”

“Yeah, but how do we do that without drawing attention to ourselves? Or setting off the guy on the stage with the rifle?”

Raymond sorted through their options, none of which were good. Jake was right – it would be near-impossible to make a move without alerting the shooters to their presence. They needed a diversion.

“The control room,” he said, slowly.

“We definitely can’t make it up there,” Jake said.

“No,” Raymond said. It was a long shot, but worth a try– “I wonder if we can communicate with the room from here,” he said.

Jake looked up at that, his eyebrows drawn in confusion. “You want to communicate with a room?”

“Not the room, but a person in it,” Raymond said. He looked all around the dressing room but it was mostly in shadows, still just lit with the light from Jake’s cell phone screen. He switched on the flashlight on his phone – it was a gamble, because surely someone outside the room would be able to see the bright light through the gaps in the doorway. But the shooters were unlikely to venture backstage. He shone the flashlight all around the room, and there it was, on the wall just to the right of the door – an intercom.

He hesitated with his fingers over the call button. He couldn’t know for sure that it connected to the control room. And if it did, the chances that anyone was in there – that any of the civilians had taken refuge in there during the initial chaos of the takeover – were slim.

He pressed the button.

Immediately, a breathless voice came over the speaker. “Hello?”

Raymond winced at the sound – even at a whisper, the disconnected voice seemed loud in the small room.

“This is Captain Raymond Holt,” Raymond said softly, his mouth close to the intercom speaker. “Am I speaking to someone in the control room?”

“Yes,” the person said, with obvious relief. “It’s Detective Wong.”

“Detective,” Raymond said. “I’m with Detective Peralta and we are backstage.”

“Oh,” Wong said. “I was hoping you were calling from the outside.”

“I’m afraid not,” Raymond said. “Are you injured?”

“No, I’m fine,” Wong said. “I got a group of civilians out the back exit but then those guys started shooting and I had to take cover back here.”

“Understood,” Raymond said. “Please hold for a moment.”

He released the intercom button and turned to Jake again.

“I have a plan,” Raymond said. “But it is very dangerous and may involve you disarming an unpredictable gunman in the dark and using only a prop sword.”

“I’m so in,” Jake said, and shoved to his feet with a grin.

+++

Detective Wong had full control over the house and stage lights from the control room. She had to be careful finding the right switches to turn the lights off and on – she couldn’t afford to use her cell phone to see, because the light would be obvious through the control room window – but after a few minutes her voice came over the intercom telling them she was set. Raymond, in the meantime, had gone to a table backstage on which he’d seen a pile of prop swords, perhaps from a recent production of the Pirates of Penzance. He gently eased two swords out of the stack and returned to the dressing room. The swords were made of wood but they had more heft to them than Raymond had expected. He was pleased, though they would hardly be much of a match against a handgun.

That was why their plan hinged on the elements of distraction and surprise. Raymond called Detective Wong on the intercom and said in a whisper, “Go in five.”

“Roger, go in five minutes,” Detective Wong replied, her quiet voice crackling with static.

Raymond looked at Jake, who had his sword planted in front of him like a cane. Raymond didn’t know if he was actually using the prop to steady himself or that was just the way he happened to be holding it.

“Ready?” Raymond said.

“Always,” Jake said, with a fierceness to his hushed voice that made Raymond think that was surely a line from an action adventure movie.

Raymond opened the door and headed stage left, once again gesturing Jake toward stage right. Jake nodded, and they split up.

Raymond worked his way cautiously around the stage then slid into the deep shadows in the wings. He glanced across the stage and caught the smallest glimpse of Jake – little more than a dark flutter of motion – taking his position on the opposite side. On the stage, the gunman with the rifle was standing close to the female shooter – his sister – and talking in a hushed, angry voice. The other two shooters were about halfway down the aisles, one posted on either side of the auditorium.

Their plan was absurd. The chance of failure was astoundingly high. In a few moments, Detective Wong would flick the lights off and on in the control room to draw the attention of the shooters. The hope was that one or both of the men in the aisles would be sent back to the control room to check it out. Raymond and Jake would then slip out from the wings to creep up after them. They were counting on the distraction of the flashing lights and the fact that most of the auditorium beyond the first few rows of seating was in darkness to keep them from being seen. But the plan required both of them to be fully exposed as they darted from the wings to the aisles.

The control room window lit up. There was no turning back. Raymond gripped his sword in both hands and waited for someone to make a move.

+++

The lights flicked on and off three times before anyone noticed. The gunman on stage held up a hand to stop his sister from speaking and yelled out over the auditorium, “What the fuck is going on back there?”

The two men in the aisles turned as the light came on once again and just as quickly went off. They looked back at their brother, one of them shrugging dramatically.

“Don’t just fucking stand there,” the man on the stage said. “Check it out.”

The men in the aisles exchanged a look across the auditorium, then turned and walked slowly up the aisles. Raymond glanced at the two shooters on stage – they were both facing forward, eyes on the control booth – and he slipped out from behind the curtained wings. He heard a gasp from one of the hostages in the front row of the auditorium and winced, but he didn’t stop moving. The several seconds of total exposure stretched out forever – his skin prickled, and he could feel sweat gathering in his armpits and the small of his back – and then he reached the shadows. He hunched low to further hide himself. Up ahead, the shooter on his side was about three-quarters up the aisle. Raymond didn’t risk a glance toward Jake’s side.

Raymond followed behind the shooter, keeping low and close to the seats, practically crawling on hands and knees. The man reached the end of the aisle and eased carefully around the corner, gun drawn. Raymond quickly stepped after him. He turned the corner too, and found the man stopped in front of the control room door, hand reaching for the doorknob. Raymond sidled up behind him, preparing to smash the hilt of the sword on top of his head, when the man suddenly swung around to face him. Raymond reflexively spun the sword around and swept up, knocking the gun out of the man’s hand. He shuffled back a step and brought the sword to point at the man’s chest. But this was no fencing match – he punched the man in the face, sending him hard to the ground.

He was reaching for the man’s gun when the other shooter rounded the opposite corner. The man stopped suddenly, mouth open in a perfect “oh” of surprise. Raymond was afraid he was going to call out, but then the flat span of a sword bashed into the side of his head and he dropped too, without a sound. Behind him stood Jake, smiling faintly even as he swayed suddenly toward the wall. Jake caught himself with one hand and gave Raymond a shaky thumbs up.

Detective Wong poked her head out of the control room door.

“I can’t believe that worked. You guys are awesome,” she hissed. She glanced at Jake and added, “Uh, what happened to your face?”

Jake self-consciously touched the area near the cut, which had begun to bleed again. “I-”

“He has a serious head injury and you need to help us move these men into the control room,” Raymond said, quiet but urgent.

Detective Wong took her eyes off Jake and nodded briskly. She grabbed the man Jake had taken down under the arms and dragged him back into the room. Raymond did the same with his man, and Jake lurched after them, leaning on his sword again.

“These two are going to be missed,” Jake said, as he shut the door carefully behind them.

The room wasn’t in total darkness, due to the ambient light coming from the auditorium outside. Raymond dumped his man on the floor – he was already coming around, though Jake’s man appeared to be out cold. Raymond tossed his handcuffs – grateful he hadn’t bothered to remove them from his belt that morning – to Detective Wong to use on the unconscious man. Raymond held up the handgun he’d retrieved and pointed it at the other one, who was blinking in the faint light.

Jake was correct – the other shooters were going to be wondering soon what had become of their brothers. They had to figure out their next move, and fast.

Raymond turned to the man he was holding at gunpoint. “The man and woman on the stage – they’re your brother and sister, correct?”

The man nodded.

“What is your name?”

The man hesitated, then said, “Dennis Wallace.”

“Is your brother the one in charge, Dennis?” Jake said.

Dennis darted his eyes toward Jake and nodded again. “His name is Donald. We call him Donnie.”

“What is Donnie’s plan?” Raymond said. “Why take the hostages?”

Dennis studied his hands for a long moment before answering. “I don’t think there is a plan. We heard some cops were coming here today to talk about working with the neighborhood or whatever, and he just-” Dennis paused, took a deep breath and let it out. “We all just want answers.”

“You have to know this isn’t the way to do that,” Jake said. He sounded tired, more so than when they had been backstage.

Dennis shrugged. “We weren’t gonna get them any other way. Cops already decided what happened.”

“Captain-” Detective Wong said. She caught Raymond’s eye and jerked her chin toward a clock on the wall, mouthing “hurry up.”

“Dennis,” Raymond said, “we need to end this, or else innocent people are going to get hurt, including your brother and sister.”

Dennis closed his eyes. He dipped his head, in agreement or surrender or both.

“Will you help us?” Raymond said.

Dennis didn’t move for a moment, and then he slapped a hand against the floor, hard enough to make Raymond jump in surprise. He heard Jake shuffle behind him, probably drawing the gun he’d taken from the other shooter.

But Dennis just heaved a breath and said, “Yeah. I’ll help.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is brief scene involving attempted suicide in this chapter.

It was Jake who came up with the last plan. Dennis would walk toward the stage, telling his brother that everything was fine. When he was halfway down the aisle, Detective Wong would drop the house and stage lights, throwing the entire theater into darkness. Jake and Raymond would rush down the aisles – Jake on the left, Raymond on the right – armed with the guns they’d procured from the two shooters they’d detained.

They would have 30 seconds to get themselves in position to corner the remaining shooters, then Detective Wong would cast on the lights again.

There were several major flaws to this plan: It required them to run down the aisles to the stage in near-total darkness. It required Jake to stay upright and relatively clear-headed. It required Dennis to not somehow tip off his brother to the plan, and it required Donnie not to lose it and just start shooting up the theater.

“Are you sure we can trust him?” Raymond said, jerking his chin toward Dennis. Raymond and Jake were standing close together in a corner of the control room, opposite from where Detective Wong was guarding Dennis and his brother with one of the prop swords.

“Of course I’m not,” Jake said. He rubbed his eyes with one hand; the other was loosely holding one of the handguns. “If you’ve got something better-”

“I do not,” Raymond said.

He looked out the window, where he could make out the small figures on the stage. Donnie was clearly becoming anxious. He’d started pacing a few minutes ago, one hand wrapped around the long muzzle of the rifle he had looped over his chest, the other gripping a handgun. His sister – her name was Deborah, according to Dennis – was standing behind the three officers of the One-Two-Two, her arms folded over her chest. She kept darting looks at her brother.

“We need to do this now,” Raymond said.

“Yeah,” Jake said. He pushed himself up from the console he’d been leaning against. Raymond caught him by the arm when he wavered.

“Are you up to this? Maybe Detective Wong-”

“I’m okay,” Jake said, shaking off Raymond’s help. “Let’s do it.”

Raymond sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then turned and crossed to the other side of the room. He stood before Dennis and held out a hand. Dennis took it, and let Raymond haul him to his feet.

“You walk out, tell Donnie everything’s cool,” Jake said to him. “If he asks, your brother is in the bathroom.”

“Donnie won’t buy that,” Dennis said.

“No bathroom breaks?” Jake said. Dennis shook his head. “Weird. Okay, tell him your brother’s rechecking all the doors are locked or something.”

“But don’t volunteer anything,” Raymond added. “Only if he asks.”

Dennis nodded.

“Detective Wong will turn off the lights when you are halfway down the aisle,” Raymond said. “When that happens, you will duck.”

“Try to move out of the aisle so I don’t trip over you,” Jake said.

“And stay where you are until we tell you otherwise,” Raymond said.

“Okay, I’ve got it,” Dennis said. He was twitchy, fidgeting with his hands and rocking back and forth, and Raymond couldn’t tell if it was nerves or guilt or both.

Raymond gave Jake a meaningful look. Jake replied with a small shrug. They didn’t have any other good options.

“Let’s go.”

+++

Raymond hovered at the corner, shoulder pressed into the wall as he readied to move down the aisle. Behind him, he knew Jake was doing the same thing at the opposite corner.

He heard Dennis call out, “All clear, bro!”

The lights went out and Raymond leapt out from behind the corner. The theater wasn’t in total darkness, which was a relief. He could make out shadowy figures on the stage – Donnie, the larger shadow, on Raymond’s side, and Deborah on Jake’s. The Donnie-shadow yelled, “What the fuck!” Raymond ran down the aisle, fingers trailing against the cushioned seats to his left so he wouldn’t veer into them and fall. He’d meant to start counting when the lights went down, so he knew how much time he had, but it was too late to start now.

“Turn on the fucking lights or I start fucking shooting people!” Donnie called out. Raymond was close, his fingers brushed over the front row seats and he slowed because the stairs were coming, just to his right. He jogged up – it was darker up here, the shadows almost lost to blackness, but he knew where everyone was – he raised the gun in his right hand, already pointing it to the place where he’d last seen Donnie’s shadow.

He paused at the top of the stairs, it would be just seconds now before the lights came up. He braced for the brightness, took a deep breath, clasped the gun in both hands.

“Drop it,” said a quiet voice, right in his ear. Raymond felt the cool metal of a gun pressed into the base of his skull.

The lights came on.

+++

Someone screamed and Raymond got as far as half a step to his left, trying to use the chaos caused by the lights to get the upper hand, but a quick punch to the kidney sent him nearly to his knees in pain. An arm pulled tight around his neck kept him on his feet, and the gun moved to the side of his head, pushed up against his temple.

“Drop it!” Donnie yelled, his mouth so close to Raymond’s ear that the call was deafening.

Donnie shifted, positioning Raymond in front of him even as he maintained his chokehold. They were on far stage left, near the stairs. Jake was stage right, gun pointed at Deborah, who was standing center stage, a spotlight literally shining down on her. Deborah’s eyes were huge. She’d dropped her gun next to her feet.

“Lower your gun or I shoot him,” Donnie called out to Jake.

The civilians were all crouched down on the floor between the stage and the front row of seats. The three officers of the One-Two-Two still sat in their folding chairs, several feet back from the scene playing out on the stage in front of them. Dennis was standing where Raymond had last seen him, halfway down the aisle. He must have tipped off his brother – a hand signal, a code word, a simple shake of his head.

“He’s bluffing, Peralta,” Raymond said, though he was pretty sure Donnie was not bluffing at all.

Jake kept his gaze on Deborah. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead and into his eye. But his face was as impassive as Raymond had ever seen. He was giving nothing away.

“You know I’m not bluffing,” Donnie said.

Jake darted a glance at Raymond. He surely would have done the same cost-analysis as Raymond by now – the civilians were not in the direct line of fire, the police hostages were no threat to anyone, Dennis may have betrayed them but he was unarmed and hadn’t yet moved. With Detective Wong somewhere in the back of the theater, Jake and Raymond had the advantage. Jake just had to stall, keep Donnie talking, keep Deborah at gunpoint.

Jake lowered his gun. His hands were shaking. Raymond closed his eyes – they’d been so close.

“Listen to me, Donnie,” Jake said, his voice low and frayed.

Raymond opened his eyes and watched as Jake tucked the gun into the back of his pants and lifted his arms at his sides, palms down, placating.

“That man you’re holding at gunpoint, he’s Captain Holt,” Jake said.

“I don’t give a fuck who he is,” Donnie said.

“You should, though,” Jake said, “because he’s on your side.”

Raymond frowned at Jake, wondering what kind of new strategy he was employing. Surely he didn’t think they could trick Donnie, making him believe they were going to let him go. Jake caught Raymond’s eye, just long enough to give him the slightest of nods, before directing his gaze back to Donnie.

“Bullshit,” Donnie said with a bark of laughter. “Cops aren’t on anyone’s side but their own. Fucking blue brotherhood, man.”

“Speaking of brothers,” Jake said, “yours said you want justice for your father. I’m telling you, Captain Holt is your best chance for that. He is without doubt the most honorable, the most principled and the fairest officer in the entire NYPD. I know you think your dad’s death wasn’t fully investigated, you think he was murdered by someone on the force. If that’s true, Captain Holt will make sure the person who did it is found and brought to justice.”

Donnie tightened his grip around Raymond’s neck at the word “justice,” and Jake plowed on.

“But if you don’t let him go – if you shoot him, or me, or if you end up getting shot by the SWAT team that comes in here to rescue everyone, well-” Jake paused, held his hands up in a small shrug. “Then you’ll never know. Then you’ll just be dead or in jail and no one will care.”

Jake let his hands fall to his sides. Under the harsh stage lights, his face was unnaturally pale, and Raymond could see fine perspiration at his hairline and his temples.

“I think he’s right, Donnie,” Deborah said, her voice loud and clear from center stage.

“He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about,” Donnie said, but Raymond could hear the uncertainty, could feel the press of the gun against his head let up a little.

“It’s over,” Deborah said. She swept a hand over her cheek and Raymond realized she was crying. “Let him go.”

Donnie growled in frustration, and for a moment the gun was back, pressed bruisingly hard into Raymond’s temple. Then Donnie let out a howl of rage and backed off. Raymond instantly dropped to one knee and grabbed the gun he’d dropped. He swung around and pointed it up, only now Donnie had his gun aimed at his own head, finger twitching at the trigger. Deborah and Donnie yelled out his name, and in his peripheral vision, Raymond saw the third brother sprinting toward the stage too, Detective Wong close behind.

Raymond steadied himself, kept his gun on Donnie.

“You don’t want to do this either,” said Jake from just over Raymond’s shoulder.

“I will investigate the death of Marcus Wallace,” Raymond said. “I promise you. Put down your gun.”

“Please, Donnie,” Dennis said.

Donnie swore, his face contorted in rage. He dropped the gun.

Raymond lunged for it, grabbing it by the barrel in his free hand.

“Hands up! Everyone!” Detective Wong yelled as she ran up the stairs and onto the stage, pushing the fourth sibling ahead of her. She kicked Deborah’s gun off to the far side of the stage, and yanked the rifle from Donnie. Raymond covered her, and when she had the siblings lined up, was ordering them to their knees, he stood and finally turned back to Jake.

“Peralta, that was-”

Jake threw up on Raymond’s shoes. When he looked back up, his face was drained of all color and his eyes were wide and glazed.

“I don’t feel great, sir,” Jake said, and collapsed.

+++

Raymond caught Jake before he could fall and hit his head – again – and instead eased him down, pulling him back from the vomit. Jake sat with a grunt and bent his legs, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. Raymond squatted in front of him and tugged one hand away to get a look at his face, make sure Jake wasn’t seizing or bleeding from his eyes or nose or showing some other symptom of imminent distress. But he just looked pained and exhausted. Raymond gripped Jake’s shoulder and looked around, noting that the auditorium seemed unnaturally quiet.

Detective Wong appeared to have the four siblings under control, kneeling in a row, hands linked behind their heads. The officers of the One-Two-Two were still tied up and gagged, and the civilians were still huddled on the floor. Someone – a cop – needed to go outside and tell the cavalry everything was fine, but Raymond didn’t want to leave Jake’s side just yet, and Detective Wong was watching the shooters, and he didn’t want to send anyone from the 122nd anywhere alone after everything they’d seen and heard. There was no telling what kind of story they would spin to the police waiting outside, and this situation could still turn violent and deadly on a dime.

“Excuse me-” Raymond jerked at the voice coming from his left. One of the civilians had stood up and was standing at the edge of the stage. She was small and gray-haired but sturdy looking – the fierce look on her face reminded him of his own mother.

“Are you injured?” Raymond said.

“No, not at all,” the woman said. She pursed her lips for a moment, seeming to think over her next words. “My name is Miriam Downs. I knew Marcus Williams. He was a good man. He’d be damn disappointed in his children right now, but he was good man, and he didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

Raymond looked her in the eye and held her gaze. He dipped his chin and said, “I will not let this go. I will get answers.”

“I know,” the woman said sincerely. “Now, you need to send one of those officers outside, to tell all of the police out there that it’s safe, right?”

“I do,” Raymond said, impressed that the woman had caught on to the dilemma.

“I’ll go with them,” she said, and tipped her chin toward the officer on the far left. “But only that one, the young one. I don’t know him so I think he must be new.”

Raymond glanced back at the officer and was pleased to see the young man immediately nod curtly. Raymond pulled out keys to the handcuffs and passed them to the civilian.

“She’ll need this too,” Detective Wong called out, holding up a key of her own. “For the padlock on the exit door. I took it off Donnie.”

Ms. Downs used the stairs to climb up on stage and Raymond watched as she bent to release the officer, then went to retrieve the key from Detective Wong. Only when she was on her way toward the exit did Raymond turn back to Jake.

“How are you doing?” he said quietly, squeezing Jake’s shoulder.

Jake groaned again, but he pulled his head up just enough to show his eyes. “It’s over, right? We’re done here?”

“Almost,” Raymond said.

“Good, because I have had the worst fucking headache all day.”

Raymond laughed a little and moved to sit beside Jake. He laid his palm over the back of Jake’s neck, and Jake dropped his head into his hands again.

“That was good work just now, the way you talked him down,” Raymond said. “Though I was caught off guard when you lowered your weapon.”

He felt Jake’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt in another shootout,” he said. “Besides, I was super dizzy. I was seeing, like, three of you.”

Raymond sat in silence for a moment, then said, “I’m proud of you, Jake.”

“You were the McClane today. I was just along for the ride,” Jake said, shaking his head slowly. “You have to admit, taking down these guys? That was pretty dope.”

Raymond watched Ms. Downs open the exit door, letting in a slash of dazzling sunlight. He thought about how much paperwork he would have to do later that afternoon. He thought about how furious and worried Amy was going to be when she saw Jake. He thought about Rosa and how scared they had all been for her.

He thought about the promises Jake had made on his behalf today, and he smiled.

“Yippie kayak, other buckets,” Raymond said.

Jake slowly lifted his head, eyes wide in alarm, and Raymond made him suffer a silent ten-count before he cracked a smile.

They were still laughing uncontrollably when the SWAT team burst through the doors.


	4. Epilogue

After eight hours in the emergency room, one MRI, ten minutes with the attending neurologist and Amy didn’t know how many cognitive checks, a nurse ducked around the curtain surrounding Jake’s bed and cheerily announced that he was free to go home. Amy was aghast.

“He was shot in the head,” Amy said.

The nurse balked. She glanced at the papers in her hand and opened her mouth and Amy cut her right off, because if anyone said it was “just a graze” she was going to lose it.

“He was shot. In the head,” Amy said. She punctuated the last word with a finger gun pointed at her own temple.

“I’ll just check with the doctor,” the nurse said and scuttled out.

Amy blew out a breath and turned back to Jake. He was sitting up, the head of the bed elevated because lying flat made it feel like his brain was going to explode out of his eyes, he said. Now, his head was bowed and his shoulders were shaking and Amy could tell he was trying to stifle laughter.

“It’s not funny,” Amy said.

“No,” Jake said, shaking his head carefully.

“I mean it,” Amy said.

Jake let a chuckle escape. Amy could feel her face getting hot with frustration.

“You were shot, Jake.” Now she felt the tears prickling again at the corners of her eyes. She closed her eyes and willed them away.

She felt Jake’s hand clasp her own. His fingers were cold. They’d been cold since she’d run to him on that stage, since she’d fallen to her knees at his side and kissed the top of his head and grabbed the hand closest to her. He’d leaned into her chest and she’d stroked his hair carefully.

The officer with the 122nd had only said that Jake was injured before he’d been led away. The SWAT guys had huddled briefly, told Amy and Rosa and Charles and Terry that they would go in first, and Amy hadn’t argued because her heart was racing but her mind was clear and she was focused, like she always got before a raid. She’d been fine, cool-headed and professional, right up until she looked at the stage and Jake looked up in her direction and even from the back of the theater she could see the blood on his face.

Standing beside his hospital bed eight hours later she said, quietly, “In the head.”

Jake took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.

She held his hand in both of hers until his fingers didn’t feel so cold.

+++

They were getting married in three weeks. Amy had gone into the precinct that morning to get ahead on her paperwork so she could leave it all behind while they were on their honeymoon. She’d been going over her wedding tasks in her head as she went, enjoying the combined thrill of organization and imagining her fiancé in his tuxedo. The call had come from Terry: a hostage situation, at least three shooters, no one had heard from Jake or Captain Holt. He would pick her up in ten minutes.

Amy had tried calling Jake, but was sent straight to voicemail.

Charles and Rosa took longer to reach, so the drive to Staten Island was just Amy and Terry, and it was silent save for the crackle of the radio in Terry’s minivan. The week before, it had been Rosa. Jake had told Amy about wanting to go after Rosa alone, about lying to Holt and getting in a car and driving off to save the day, and how he’d changed his mind – because the squad needed him to lead, and because Amy needed him to be safe. She’d been appalled by what he’d confessed, but he’d been a wreck, his voice broken and quiet in the dim light of their living room while the TV was turned down low to some Food Channel competition.

She’d let it go, she’d soothed him and said she understood, because she did.

But driving to Staten Island in that heavy silence, the burden of unknowns both fresh and so much sharper than the week before, she was furious at him. They were getting married in three weeks. How dare he. How dare he.

+++

The scene at the high school had been contained chaos. Terry had parked two blocks away because the area was roped off with bright yellow police tape, the entire auditorium – a building separate from the main high school – surrounded by cops and cars, their lights blinking lazily in the sun. Terry had spotted the captain of the One-Two-Two through the crowds and they’d gone to him for an update on the situation. He was talking to an older woman, a civilian, who’d been clutching a notebook to her chest.

“Miriam is still in there,” the woman said, tears running down her face. “I grabbed her hand and tried to get her out but she fell and an older man carried me off. He made me leave her.”

“Ma’am, we’re going to get your friend out but you need to step away right now,” the captain said, reaching out with one hand to push her back a bit. He looked up at Terry and said, “Sergeant, I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

“She’s not my friend, she’s my wife!” the woman shouted after him, even as the captain was turning back to one of his detectives. She focused on Terry and Amy then and thrust her notebook toward them. “We’ve been demanding a community meeting for months. I was taking notes-”

Amy gently took the notebook from her and read over the neat printing on the top page. It was a list of officers. She stared at the last two names.

“Please,” the woman said. “You have to help them.”

+++

They’d waited outside for hours, but in the end, it was over in minutes. Amy stayed with Jake while the paramedics looked him over, while they asked him questions and looked in his eyes and checked his blood pressure.

“It’s Saturday,” Jake said, when they asked what day it was. “I’m getting married in three weeks.”

He smiled at Amy and she smiled, tight-lipped, back at him. He couldn’t tell them what he’d had for breakfast that morning or what he’d done the night before, and he had to ask Amy how old he was, what year he’d been born. But he remembered the wedding.

She rode with him in the ambulance, because being his fiancé had its perks, and he insisted he hadn’t been shot, that it was just shrapnel from the bullet hitting the podium or the stage. It was in the emergency room that a doctor confirmed that the gouge high on his forehead was from a bullet. It made Amy feel faint, vision going narrow and dark, and one of the nurses made her sit down on a chair that was too far from Jake’s gurney.

+++

“Will the scar be obvious?” Jake said, as the doctor was stapling the wound shut. Amy assumed he was hoping for something cool, a story he could tell for the rest of his career and long after.

The doctor paused to push back Jake’s hair and look over his face. A nurse had cleaned off all of the blood, but he had a lump over his right eyebrow and that eye was bloodshot and bruised. Amy couldn’t see the bullet wound from where she was standing.

“I don’t think so,” the doctor said. “It’s right up at your hairline.”

“Good,” Jake said, and closed his eyes as the doctor resumed stapling.

Later, he told Amy he didn’t want to ruin their photos.

+++

They released Jake after all, once the doctor had talked to Amy and told her Jake was okay, that he needed rest and he would best get that at home. (It helped that Captain Holt came by to check on Jake and insisted on reading over the doctor’s notes to reassure himself that Jake would be fine. No, he didn’t have a medical degree, but Amy somehow trusted him more than anyone else in the emergency room.) The doctor gave Amy a list of instructions: No television, no reading, no video games, nothing too loud or stimulating. Jake dozed on her shoulder on the Uber back to their apartment.

She set him up on the couch because it was still early and he didn’t want to go to bed. She turned on Enya – not Watermark, because the “Sail Away” song still triggered him – and heated chicken noodle soup from a can. Jake filled her in on the details of what had gone down as best he could while they ate; they each only finished half a bowl.

Amy set the dishes on the coffee table and curled up next to him, breathing in the scent of hospital and old sweat and dried blood and underneath it all Jake. “I love you,” she said. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Ames-”

She pressed a hand into his chest to stop him. “I know you can’t promise that,” she said. “I can’t either. This is what we’ve signed on for. I know that. But after Rosa, and this- I need to know that I can trust you.”

“You can,” Jake said, softly.

“I mean it, Jake,” she said, and she pulled back from him, to trace his bruised face with her gaze, to look him in the eye. “I need to know that when you’re out there you’re not being the hero. You’re not being reckless and saving the day. You have to remember that it’s not just you. It’s not even about Charles or Gina or Rosa or the Nine-Nine – it’s about me. And I need you to come home, every time.”

She knew he understood. There might come a time when he did everything right – when he was brave and also smart and careful – and still, it all went wrong.

“I know,” he said. “I will. Every time.”

She kissed him carefully on the mouth, savoring it – just being here, and safe, and close. Then she sat back and let him lean into her, gently curling her fingers through his hair until he was asleep in her arms.

She believed him.

THE END


End file.
